


The Last of the Rebel Angels

by ShannonPhillips



Series: AUs and Out-takes [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel Wings, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanan isn’t here for revelation. He’s not here to save anybody’s soul. He’s just here to take a beating for the crowd and to walk away with a fistful of dirty twenties that’ll let him stay drunk for the next week or so.</p><p>It’s not like there’s anyone left to judge him for it.</p><p>[Star Wars Rebels modern-day angels AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: racist and homophobic language. Additional warnings for future chapters included in the end notes.

The last of the rebel angels is wrapping gauze around his fists. He’s in the parking lot of a particularly seedy bar, stripped to the waist, and around him there’s a drunken crowd growing louder in their taunts and shouts. They won’t look into his eyes, and they don’t see his wings, but they like to watch him fight.

It’s been ten thousand years since Heaven fell. The Empire of Man is ascendant now, and most of these yahoos wouldn’t know an angel if one bit them on the ass. (Which is actually something that Kanan might get around to doing before the night is over.)

His real name isn’t Kanan Jarrus, and it isn’t Caleb Dume; it isn’t any of the hundred other names and faces that he’s worn since the war. His real name is a word of power and if anyone here had the secret wisdom and the strength of will to speak it, this crumbling asphalt would crack in two and the smog-heavy skies would blaze with holy light. It would be a real shitshow. 

But Kanan isn’t here for revelation. He’s not here to save anybody’s soul. He’s just here to take a beating for the crowd and to walk away with a fistful of dirty twenties that’ll let him stay drunk for the next week or so.

It’s not like there’s anyone left to judge him for it.

Kanan tapes off the gauze and flexes his hand, throwing an experimental punch to make sure the wrapping doesn’t constrict his movement. He’d rather not break any fingers. He’s immortal and all—well, barring the kind of divine ordnance that took out the seraphim—but he still feels pain. Yeah. Because _that_ was really intelligent design.

“C’mon, you wetback faggot! Quick fucking around and get over here for your fucking beatdown!”

Kanan lifts his eyes and gives a slow and nasty smile. In this form he’s tall and lean, his amber skin marked with freckles and scars. His eyes are blue-green and infinitely deep. No mortal can hold his gaze for long; they look away, flushed with shame as if all their darkest secrets were laid open to his sight.

Which in fact is true—Kanan can see into souls—although ten thousand years of living with mortals has left him so jaded that he really doesn’t give a shit about their squalid and predictable sins. He takes in his opponent at a glance: dude’s wearing biker leathers, and he’s shorter than Kanan but much heavier, plenty of fat on top of plenty of muscle. The swastika tattooed on his neck would tell Kanan everything he needed to know about this charming gentleman’s personal beliefs, even if he couldn’t see the black spots on his soul. Theft, covetousness, adultery, bearing false witness…killing’s the big one, of course, and he’s done it…actually, it would be easier to count the number of Commandments that this son of Adam hasn’t broken.

(One. That number would be one. He has always honored his father and his mother.)

He’s not dead yet. He could be redeemed. There’s always that chance, for any mortal—he might have a dream, or hear a voice from the sky. Pick up a life-changing book. Take a potent bunch of shrooms. He could have an epiphany, he could see clearly for the first time. He could repent and change his life. It happens, and if Kanan worked hard for a long time maybe he could even make it happen. That’s kind of supposed to be his job.

But he clocked out a long, long time ago.

And besides, it’s always been easier to deliver punishment than redemption. Kanan steps forward, still smiling wolfishly. The crowd whistles and cheers. They make way for him, stepping back far enough to give clearance to the wings, even though they have no idea why they’re doing it. Once he’s passed through, they circle up tight behind him. A few last-minute bets are trading hands.

The big biker’s eyes have slid away, and his face is burning beet-red with anger and shame. He spits out something hateful and blasphemous—Kanan can’t actually hear it over the roar of the crowd, but he sees another little tiny black spot pimpling the man’s soul—and lunges in.

Kanan takes the strike on his shoulder and quickly pivots, narrowly avoiding a follow-up kick from the dude’s steel-toed boots. He dances on the balls of his toes, and the next time the guy dives forward he doesn’t give ground. They trade a flurry of quick punches, most of them glancing, but then Kanan lands a very solid blow that makes his opponent stagger back.

He could end this now, but the crowd will turn ugly if they don’t get enough of a show. His focus is mostly on the fight, but here and there he catches something from the audience:

“…kill him KILL HIM!”

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

“…hope I can help them…”

That last one arrests him, it’s a deep, rich, warm voice and such a strange sentiment to hear—in this of all places, someone wanting to help? His head snaps over, scanning the twisted, jeering faces around him to see who could possibly have said such a thing.

And that’s when Brick Shithouse punches him in the face. Kanan hears his own nose crack, feels the gush of blood. If he was mortal he’d probably be unconscious now. Even as it is he goes reeling and stumbles against the onlookers, only to feel unfriendly hands shoving him back into the fight zone. The crowd wants to see him destroyed.

He spits blood and narrowly ducks a wild haymaker, but he’s slow and the guy is able to follow up with a clinch around the shoulders. He’s going for a takedown, and Kanan knows if he goes to the ground it’ll be all over for him—the mortal has forty pounds on him, probably.

But what the guy doesn’t see—what he doesn’t feel—is that his arms aren’t just encircling Kanan’s bare shoulders. He’s also got the wings pinned. And though Kanan’s wings are nearly as tattered and blackened as this man’s soul, they remain a manifestation of pure grace. There is no force on Earth that can confine them.

Time stops when the angel spreads his wings. The universe sucks in its breath. For an instant Kanan hovers between forms, half bloodied streetfighter and half a being made of storm wind and lightning. The biker’s grip is explosively broken; he staggers backward, face gone slack with fear and awe. In the next instant Kanan pulls the wings back in and follows up with a knockout punch.

The crowd shifts and murmurs. Most of them have already forgotten what they just saw, though a few—the ones whose souls are not too scarred—are staring at Kanan with a confused sort of hope. Enh, they’ll get over it. He spits another hock of blood out on the asphalt and says, “Where’s my money?“

A few beats, then someone staggers forward. That fistful of grimy twenties is deposited in his hand. Someone else is checking on the biker—he’ll live, of course, he’s blinking awake and groaning something in a language he doesn’t even know. Ancient Hebrew. _Glory, glory, glory hallelu Yah, glory to God in the highest._

“Good luck with that, buddy,” Kanan mutters, and stuffs the bills into his back hip pocket. There’s something rolling around in his mouth. He thinks it might be a tooth.

He’s turning to go when he hears it again. That voice. “…can stay with me,” she’s saying, “but…” He loses the rest, even as he’s turning back and scanning the crowd.

No, fuck it. None of these assholes. They’re just…settling bets. Swigging from brown bottles. In a couple of cases, still staring—what, have you never seen a miracle before? Kanan’s brows draw together. He looks past the gawkers.

There. Over by the back door of the bar. Not even watching the show, just casually leaning against the brick wall and chatting. Two women—one’s underage, wearing a leather jacket and Doc Martens with tattered fishnets and a short plaid skirt. Safety pins in her ears, hair dyed three different kinds of fuscia, and her soul is so pure and bright that Kanan wishes he’d never looked. Fuck it all, if this one’s in trouble, he’s going to have to do something stupid.

Then he sees the other.

He’s halfway across the parking lot before he realizes he’s taken a step. The woman, the grown one, she’s pretty alert. She raises her head, green eyes narrowing, when he’s still a good five yards away. Her gaze fixes on him. He does his best to smile but the movement shifts the loose tooth in his mouth, and when he draws up beside the two women he’s already coughing.

The pink-haired one glares at him, but the other—the one that glows like a star in his sight—she just holds him in that level green gaze. “Hello,” she says, and he’s not at all surprised to recognize her voice. “Can I help you?”

Kanan clears his throat, and the broken tooth shoots out of his mouth to land with a wet, bloody splat at her feet. Her eyes flick down to it, and back to his face. He gives her his very best smile, red and smudgy though it must be.

“Hey,” he says. “Hi. I’m your guardian angel.”

“Funny,” says the pink-haired girl flatly, but the other woman stops her with a quick touch to the wrist. 

Kanan just keeps smiling because it’s the least threatening thing that he knows how to do. He’s keenly aware of his height, his muscle mass, and the fact that he’s just beaten a man into the pavement right in front of her. It was probably not the best way of getting off on the right foot: he can already tell she hates intimidation. He’s also aware that he’s staring but even for the love of God (and he means that quite literally) he cannot stop.

Her soul. Her _soul_. “Innocent” is not the right word at all, not for something so implacably strong, not for something that burns even hotter than his own flaming sword. (Maybe. It's been a while.)

“Flawless” would be a better word. But no, that’s not it either. She has sinned. Pride, mostly. A little bit of lustful thinking that’s not really a sin except she worries it might be, so there’s some shame and furtiveness and self-deception there. It’s nothing, truly nothing in the cosmic scheme, but he can see it. She’s not actually perfect. She’s…

She’s human, vulnerable and flawed, blazing in the darkness of the fallen world. She has made a lifetime’s worth of difficult choices and almost all of them have had the effect of strengthening her compassion and her faith. She’s gotten this far completely alone, and nothing has fed on her, nothing has cracked the bones of her soul—

“Uncorrupted.” That’s the word. She’s completely uncorrupted. They haven’t gotten to her yet.

Kanan forces himself to stop staring into her soul and focuses on the surface-level instead. Normal, Jarrus. Don’t scare her off.

He can’t really tell if she’s pretty or not. That’s an angel thing: humans think that angels are perfect and beautiful, but if anything the effect is stronger in reverse. Angels get _weird_ about mortals. After ten thousand years Kanan’s gotten very good at beating down that reflex adoration—most of humanity, he’s learned, is actually disgusting—but if he stops and looks at anybody for long enough he’s going to find them intensely compelling. No beer goggles required. (Though sometimes it helps anyway.)

This one, though. Surely even the other humans find her stunning. Oh, well, she’ll be used to the staring, so maybe that’s good. The green eyes are contact lenses; she’s brown-skinned and brown-eyed by nature. Her hair is wrapped in a matching green headscarf but he can see a few glossy black locks escaping. And she’s looking at him like she can _see him back._

“You’re not joking,” she says slowly.

Kanan wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “I can joke,” he says. “But I can’t lie."

The pink-haired girl looks from him back to her friend. “You’re not buying this,” she says unhappily.

The woman just holds him in her level gaze. He can't remember the last time a mortal was able to look him in the eyes for so long. “If I did believe you,” she says at last, “then what should I do?”

Kanan coughs, more discreetly this time, swallowing the blood. “If you did believe me,” he says, “then it would mean I’m here because you need something. So you should tell me, and I’ll get it done.” 

“Just like that,” the girl says, still suspicious. And she’s not wholly wrong; he’s simplifying quite a bit. He can’t lie, but he can, well. Simplify.

He tears his eyes away from the woman and turns his smile on the girl. “Just like that,” he says.

“The boy,” the green-eyed woman says.

“No.”

“Sabine.”

“ _No_ ,” Sabine repeats, more strongly. “How do you know he’s not…with them?”

“Them?” There’s a cold feeling sliding up Kanan’s back, right between the wings. Oh for the love of…please let this be debtors, or drugs, or star-crossed love. Just—no Infernal entanglements. He’s spent ten thousand years avoiding those.

Neither of them answer him. The green-eyed woman is still studying him, and so Kanan just tries to look friendly and helpful, and to bleed as little as possible. Finally she says: “I don’t. So come on…angel. Let’s go somewhere that we can talk.”

“Kanan,” he says. “You can call me Kanan.”

Sabine huffs. “What kind of angel name is that?”

“It’s not one,” he says. “But it’s a name that you can say.”

“Hera,” says the woman—and, shit, when she says it he can almost hear music. Celestial choirs and this is bad, this is bad, fuckfuckfuck, why did he have to be lazy enough to pop the wings? He should’ve just lost the fight and figured out another way to make his drinking money.

“Hera,” he says. “Yeah. Let’s go somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that some readers are sensitive to fourth-wall-breaking shenanigans, so please be aware that future chapters contain (relatively mild) elements of psychological horror. It's nothing super intense but if that's the sort of thing that freaks you out then please be warned.
> 
> There's a mix for this fic that you can listen to on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/broadmajesticshannon/tattered-wings) (full playlist [here](http://worriedaboutmyfern.tumblr.com/post/135156612426/worriedaboutmyfern-tattered-wings-songs-for)).
> 
> Lastly, I hope you enjoy this illustration by Tumblr user limey-blue-arty-do as much as I did!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All right,” she says, and holds out a hand, palm up. “Let me feel the wings.”
> 
> So, slowly, he reaches out to cradle her hand in both of his. He tries to suppress the shiver that runs over him when they touch. Her fingers are long and delicate, and her skin is warm against his. 
> 
> He wraps one hand beneath her knuckles, runs the other down her arm, lifting and turning until she’s reaching just over his shoulder. He leans in even closer, until she gasps, and he feels the brush of her fingertips on his feathers.

Kanan falls in beside Hera, letting her pick the way through the parked cars and out to the street. She turns down the sidewalk, walking briskly and with purpose. The lots on either side are lined with chain-link fences, with drifts of trash—burger wrappers, newspaper flyers, empty liquor bottles—netted among the weeds that line the concrete path. It’s Kanan’s kind of neighborhood. Nobody would expect to find an angel here.

Then again, he wasn’t counting on running across a saint-soldier here, either.

“Aren’t you cold?” Hera says, sliding a glance over Kanan’s bare torso. He shrugs.

“Shirts are tricky anyway,” he says. “Wings.”

Her eyes linger on his shoulders. She doesn’t say anything. “I know,” he says. “You can’t see them.”

“Could I feel them?”

“You might,” he says. “Most people wouldn’t. Are you just curious, or looking for proof?”

“Looking for proof,” she says simply.

He slides her a lopsided (and probably still red-lined) smile. “And here I took you for a woman of faith.”

She stops, then. “I have more faith than you might guess.” Her hands are very still, and her stance is just slightly off-center: the better, he guesses, to make a sudden lunge for that dagger she wears on her hip. It's mostly covered by her long tunic shirt, but it was one of the first things he noticed about her, because it sings to him with holy power. So does the silver bangle around her wrist.

Shit, he’s really botching this.

He raises his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Look, I _see_ the kirpan, okay? You don’t need it. I would never hurt you.”

“And I won’t hurt you,” she says calmly. “Unless I have to.”

Kanan’s eyebrow climbs. “Why would you have to?”

“Because there’s three possibilities. Either you’re deluded, in which case maybe I can get you some help, or you are what you say you are. An angel.”

“And the third possibility?”

Those green eyes don’t waver. “You’re the other thing.”

Kanan winces. Yep, that’s pretty much exactly what he _didn’t_ want to hear. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t have anything to do with them, and neither should you.”

Her mouth curves in a tight, mirthless smile. Her eyes are full of challenge. In that warm, rich voice she says: “I hunt them.”

Kanan very slowly lowers his arms. “There’s not a lot of demon hunters left in the world,” he says flatly. “I’ll give you three guesses why.”

She cocks her head. Puts a hand on her hip. “Because the greatest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he doesn’t exist.”

“No. Well, yes, but I was thinking more because _they all die_.”

Her brows draw together. “You said you were here to help me.”

“And I want to,” Kanan says. “Yes, there’s a divine will. It’s in every living thing, it surrounds us and penetrates us and binds the universe together. Yes, it works through me when it can, and clearly it wants to work through you. But—don’t let it.”

Her fingers twitch. “You say you’re an angel, and you’re telling me to defy the will of God?”

He ignores the hand creeping towards her hip and leans forward, putting as much urgency and passion into his voice as he can. “I’m telling you that it will consume you if you let it. Burn you up from the bones. But you have a choice. Live a good life, help others, be compassionate, stay safe and happy and die old. Don’t be a soldier in this war. Don’t let it make you a martyr. You. Have. A. Choice.”

“I’ve made my choice,” she says softly, and Kanan’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Then I’m too late,” he says.

Hera lets out a sharp breath. “Just tell me. Right now. If it’s a war—which side are you on?”

His side? His side is gone. His side died in hellfire. What came out afterwards…those aren’t his brothers, not any more.

“The bystanders,” he says roughly. “Regular people caught in the crossfire. I’m on their side.”

“All right,” she says, and holds out a hand, palm up. “Let me feel the wings.”

So, slowly, he reaches out to cradle her hand in both of his. He tries to suppress the shiver that runs over him when they touch. Her fingers are long and delicate, and her skin is warm against his.

He wraps one hand beneath her knuckles, runs the other down her arm, lifting and turning until she’s reaching just over his shoulder. He leans in even closer, until she gasps, and he feels the brush of her fingertips on his feathers.

He drops her hand, then, letting his arms fall to his sides while she explores the contours of his wing. She’s standing so close to him now, only inches between them. He shouldn’t be allowing this. Every second her fingers linger on his body is going to make it harder for him to walk away. He should go. He should go _now_.

Instead he holds himself very still beneath her touch. Studies the way her fine, mobile features are transformed by awe. Thinks about how it would feel to gather her in his arms, to have her body under his: to see her transfigured in a different kind of passion.

“I…feel them,” Hera breathes. “But there’s…something strange…”

So he reaches back, puts his hand over hers again, and pinches her fingers together with a short, sharp twist. He feels the feather come loose, and when she draws back it’s still in her hand.

“There you go,” he says.

She runs one careful finger along the feather’s shaft. Near the base it’s fletched with soft, perfectly white down, but towards the tip the vaning grows patchy and black. Finally she looks up at him. “This isn’t exactly putting all my doubts to rest.”

He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. “I was in a war,” he says. “There was fire.”

She turns the feather over in her fingers, considering. “All right,” she says at last. “Let’s keep going. I had another test in mind anyway.”

When she starts walking, he falls in at her shoulder. “What kind of test?”

That gets him an over-the-shoulder smile. Her eyes are sparkling with some kind of hidden mischief. “I want you to meet my cat.”

“Your cat,” he says. “Okay.”

He keeps looking behind them as they walk. It’s not good, him being this close to a holy warrior. It’s going to draw attention from …the Powers. What’s left of them.

But he’s greedy. It’s been so long since he’s spoken to anyone that could look him in the eyes.

Kanan’s footsteps beat against the sidewalk. Hers are lighter, but his senses are attuning to her. He’s even starting to be aware of the steady thrum of her heartbeat. He doesn’t hear anything else, and he doesn’t see any ill omens in the heavy clouds above or the patches of rainbow oil in the street. He flexes his taped hand and clenches it again. If they do come for her, they’ll get more than they bargained for.

Another couple of blocks, and there’s fewer empty lots. More multistory buildings with dark, dirty, unornamented brick facades and iron grilles over the windows. Hera stops before one with a small sign swinging from a broken chain: Rooms by the Week or Month. There’s someone sleeping in the doorway. He shifts over as Hera climbs the brief flight of stairs.

“Gotta dollar?”

“I think so,” Hera says. After a moment of rummaging she comes up with a bill and leans down to put it in his hands.

“Thanks. How ‘bout you, pal?”

Kanan quirks an eyebrow. The man’s bloodshot gaze immediately drops away, but not before Kanan sees more than he’d prefer. Gluttony. Intemperance. Envy. Wrath.

“Yeah,” Kanan says, and reaches into his back pocket for the winnings from the fight. “Here.” He peels off a twenty, sticks it back in his pocket, and hands over the rest of the wad.

The guy mutters some kind of incoherent thanks but Hera’s already pushing open the door, so Kanan goes after her. Inside there’s a small lobby lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb, and a receptionist’s area cordoned off with another iron grille. Hera ignores it, making instead for another, smaller door on the opposite side of the lobby.

“Elevator’s out,” she says. “Sorry.”

He follows her into the stairwell. The lighting in here is just as bad as the lobby, and the central shaft is tight. “If there was a little more clearance,” he says regretfully, “I’d offer you a lift.”

She pauses and looks back, eyes alight with something complicated. “Seriously?”

Kanan shrugs. Reckless displays of power are a terrible idea but he’s not sure he can dig himself much deeper, here. “Sure, why not.”

“I’ve always wanted to fly.” Then, as if embarrassed by the raw yearning in her own voice, she turns back to the stairs.

Kanan trudges after her. “Don’t tell me. You’re on the top floor.”

“Yep.” After a beat: “It’s not so bad. There’s roof access.”

“So you can have a smoke.”

This time she doesn’t stop, but she does throw him another look. “Are _you_ testing me?”

It takes him a second, but then: “Oh. Right. You don’t smoke.” He’d have seen it, actually, if she did: it’s prohibited by her faith, so it would show up as a sin in his eyes, even though for non-Sikhs the same activity would leave no mark.

“Do you?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve been known to knock back a few, though.”

She climbs in silence. “You want the whole theology?” he says after another flight.

“More curious about the biology,” she says. “You eat and drink?”

“I don’t have to,” Kanan says. “But I like to. I’ve also picked up a bad breathing habit over the years.”

“And you bleed,” she points out.

“In this form, yes.”

They’re at the top of the stairwell. Hera pushes open the inner door, leading him into a narrow hallway flanked by doors. “You have another form?”

“Well, now we’re getting into the theology.”

“Hold on while I get my keys.” She pauses in front of a particular door, so he leans against the wall and folds his arms, looking down at her. He likes the small wrinkle that appears between her eyebrows as she jiggles the key in what seems to be a sticky lock.

The door swings open, finally. It’s a small efficiency, with a mini-fridge, sink and hot plate tucked in one corner and a futon bed set against the opposite wall. Two more doors, one which has got to be the bathroom—the other probably a closet. There’s nothing on the walls, no houseplants, no television…but she does have a cheerful Indian-print bedspread on the futon and a few candles set on top of the mini-fridge.

Oh, and a really enormous tomcat.

Kanan locks eyes with the orange-striped beast and sees nothing. Cats don’t give up their secrets even for God.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling down and offering it his knuckles to sniff. “Who’s a good kitty?”

It slinks forward, tail lashing. Kanan, eyeing the creature and estimating its weight at a good twenty pounds, wonders if there might not be some puma in its recent ancestry. He holds his hand steady and the orange tom finally puts its nose against his skin—

—only to recoil, hissing. Kanan pulls back, but not before the cat gives him a vicious swipe across the knuckles. It turns tail and flees beneath the futon, staring out at him from the shadows with baleful green eyes.

“Um,” Kanan says, rising to his feet. “I guess I failed that test.”

“Oh no,” Hera says, her voice sparkling with amusement. “Chopper likes you.”

Kanan sucks at his bleeding knuckles. “Good?” he manages at last.

Hera walks over to the mini-fridge and carefully sets his feather down next to the candles. She pulls a book of matches from the drawer next to the sink, strikes one, and touches it to the wicks. A sweet smell fills the small room, and the candles’ glow softens the harsh overhead lighting.

“You haven’t been here long,” Kanan observes. “And you don’t plan to stay.”

“No. I met Sabine over the Internet and I came because she asked me to. I’m sorry, there’s only one place to sit.”

Kanan settles himself on one edge of the bed, carefully arranging both his wings and his ankles to be as far as possible from the vicious tomcat. Hera is busying herself in the kitchen area, pulling out a can opener and a tin of cat food—ah. Chopper slinks out, pausing only to hiss again at Kanan before going to collect his dinner.

“Sabine and I have talked about…my work,” Hera says. “She’s part of a group home for older children in the foster system. High school kids, mostly. She says there’s a new boy in the group and, from what he’s said, she believes his parents may be—afflicted.”

“Possessed?” Kanan asks.

“Yes.”

“They’re gone. Most likely, they’re just gone. Sorry.”

She studies him, then very deliberately, crosses the room to sit at his side. “Most likely,” she echoes.

Kanan scrubs at his face with the heels of his hands. “Once or twice,” he admits. “Once or twice in a generation, someone comes back from it. Almost never.”

“I’ve known more successes than that.”

“You’ve known successful treatments for mental illness. Or you’ve known fakers. Getting someone back from the Dark Side? You’d be lucky if you managed one in your whole life. And two—no. It’s impossible.”

She smiles at him then, a full, unguarded smile as bright and as beautiful as the first star in the dawn sky. “Then I’m glad you’re here,” she says simply. “Because the Bridgers need a miracle.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dad, no,” Ezra cringes. “Not again!”
> 
> It’s the _again_ that does it. Because Ezra touches his cheek, and Kanan sees the thin scars there, and understands. 
> 
> A cold and righteous fury surges over him. He reaches into the aether and draws his own sword. It springs to existence in his hand, a thin, silver-blue blade that glows with the brilliance of the stars. It has been a literal age since Kanan dared to call upon the soulfire sword, but this child has been touched by Hell once already and he will not let it happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for child abuse, animal death, and trippy demon shit.

Hera’s phone gives a sharp beep and she pulls it out, frowns, then starts tapping. Kanan, driven by an impulse he can’t quite pin down, stands up and walks to the window. He pulls aside the blind and looks down at the street below.

The sun is sinking, but the streetlamps haven’t yet turned on. Kanan’s eyes are drawn to two big black birds, perched together on a telephone wire. Ravens. He thinks they’re staring right back at him.

“It’s from Sabine,” Hera says behind him. “She says Ezra—the boy—has gone missing. They think he’s run back to his parent’s home.”

“They?” Kanan says, not breaking his gaze from the birds.

“Sabine and Zeb. I haven’t met him yet but he’s a counselor at their group home, and she’s known him for a while. They’re going to meet us at the Bridgers’ house.” Kanan finally turns and sees that Hera’s packing a messenger bag: a first aid kit, a small drum. She blows out the candles and stuffs one in as well.

“How far is it?” he asks.

“Too far to walk,” she says, settling the bag over her shoulder. “You can ride with me. I’ve got a spare helmet.”

Kanan does have other ways to travel. But there’s something about those black birds he doesn’t like. _One for sorrow, two for mirth_ he reminds himself—but no, that’s magpies.

“Sure,” he says.

On the street it’s colder than it was—Kanan’s aware of the bite in the wind, though it doesn’t bother him. And speaking of bites, he can feel his new tooth beginning to poke up through the soft gap of his gum.

The birds are still there. And he spots another pair perched on the edge of the rooftop, still and quiet and preternaturally attentive. _Three for a funeral. Four for birth._

Hera’s motorcycle is a naked turbo Suzuki that’s obviously been extensively modded from the factory specs. Kanan doesn’t know much about mechanics but the thing looks like a death wish on wheels. “You should probably _only_ ride this when you have an angel over your shoulder,” he comments.

Hera just gives him a mysterious smile and tosses him a helmet, which he straps on without protest. Growing a new skull would hurt a lot more than growing a new tooth. And when he slides in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, he remembers that there are sometimes advantages to taking the longer path.

As it turns out, riding with Hera is only marginally slower than stepping through the aether, because she’s—well. She’s an utter demon on the road. The bike offers more horsepower than any sane rider would ever need or want, and she splits lanes, weaves through traffic, and doesn’t even bother to wave at the speed limits as she blows past them. Kanan, for his part, enjoys the sensation of the wind roaring beneath his wings, and makes sure that all the traffic lights turn green just as she hits them.

They’re passing into more affluent neighborhoods. The houses here are small, but well-kept, with lace curtains in the windows and little plots of flowers in the tiny front yards. Tall, old trees line both sides of the street—dormant and skeletal for the winter, but in summertime these lanes must be pleasant and shady.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kanan catches sight of another raven in the branches, and updates his count. Five for heaven.

But when Hera finally pulls up to a smooth, purring stop in front of one of the little houses, there’s two more perched in its eaves. Their black eyes glitter down at Kanan as he swings off the bike.

_Five for heaven, six for hell._

_Seven for the devil his own self._

“You made good time,” Sabine says. She’s leaning against the big, leafless sycamore, and she’s got someone with her. Big mixed-race guy wearing army surplus gear, with short grizzled hair and a tight-held bearing that suggests a military background. His muscular arms are covered in swirling, vibrant indigo tattoos, mostly in a formless pattern of waves, but with an elaborate flowing script worked through the design.

“You must be Garazeb Orrelios,” Hera says warmly.

“Zeb,” he grunts, and in the instant before his (surprisingly wide and expressive) eyes slide away, Kanan can see a very familiar kind of damage to his soul—the kind of trauma that violence and bereavement leaves behind. Then something about the tattoos draws his eye again. The script: it stands out with its own power.

Ah. Those words are names. And he sees them as sacred because they’re remembrances of the honored dead. That holy charge flickers over Zeb’s skin, low-level but constant, never far from him.

Kanan wonders if Zeb’s aware that his old war buddies are still lending him their strength.

“Something really stinks in there,” Zeb says. “The kid’s case notes said he was pulled out for unsanitary living conditions and neglect. It doesn’t smell like they’ve done any cleaning in the interim.”

“Do we know that he’s in there?” Hera asks.

“No,” says Sabine. “But where else would he go?”

“Hm,” Hera says. “Let’s start by asking politely.”

As soon as she sets foot on the porch the ravens take wing, their raucous cawing echoing harshly down the quiet street. Zeb startles, looking from side to side: “Yeah,” Kanan says. “I don’t like them either.”

Hera rings the bell. There’s no answer and the windows are dark. Here on the porch the smell is truly awful: Kanan can’t tell if it’s shit or blood or the stench of disease. Or all of them.

Sabine reaches into her jacket pocket and comes up with something small and silver: a professional-grade lockpick. “I say we go in.”

“It’s breaking and entering,” Zeb grumbles.

“I call probable cause.”

“That’s for police.”

“ _I_ call higher authority,” Kanan says. Now that they’re here, he can’t imagine walking away and leaving a child in this place.

Hera nods. “Sabine, do it.”

She works intently at the lock for a few minutes before breathing: “Got it!” The front door swings open soundlessly.

Hera is the first inside, Kanan at her back. She takes a moment just inside the threshold—Kanan guesses it’s to get her gag reflex under control. Then she reaches for the lightswitch.

It flips with an audible click, but nothing happens. “Power’s out,” Hera murmurs. She takes another few steps inside, swinging her bag off her shoulder. Kanan moves to follow. Behind him he can hear Sabine and Zeb’s noises of revulsion as they step inside.

In the darkness all he can make out are the low hulking shapes of furniture, and streaks of something fetid and rotting on the walls. There’s a gleam of metal from one corner of the room.

Hera’s got her candle out. The strike of a match, the sizzle of the wick: a slow and flickering gleam spills out from her hands.

It’s a living room, or it was once. There’s a couch and a TV and an overstuffed recliner, though the fabric of the upholstery glistens wetly in the candlelight. There are pictures on the walls. Mostly a man and a woman, and a child who grows older throughout the sequence of photos: here a baby, cradled his mother’s arms. Here a toddler getting a piggyback ride. There a tousle-headed boy in a Little League uniform, holding up a trophy with a gap-toothed smile.

In the center there’s a bit of framed of needlepoint, posies and ribbons surrounding a carefully worked script. “Bless this Mess.”

Hera swings about, and the candlelight falls on the metal structure in the corner. It’s a birdcage, but it’s empty; the door has been ripped from its hinges. The floor of the cage is strewn with dead animals. Squirrels mostly, their entrails ripped out and trailing, mixed in with the tiny corpses of about a dozen parakeets. Maggots squirm in the carrion.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Hera jerks, raising the candle. On the other side of the living room there’s a hallway, and in its dark opening stands a teenager, his pale face ghostly in the candle’s light. “You should go,” he says.

“Ezra!” Sabine cries, pushing forward. “Are you all right?”

But the kid vanishes, pulling back into the shadows, and Kanan is too thunderstruck to grab at Sabine as she rushes by. “Wait—“ Hera cries, then runs into the darkness after her.

Kanan follows a pace behind, Zeb at his heels. There’s multiple doors leading off the hallway: three on the right, one on the left, and a wide archway that opens onto a kitchen. From somewhere deeper in the house Sabine’s voice echoes: “Ezra!”

Hera pushes open the first door: it’s a closet. The second is a bathroom. She gives each only a moment’s scan before moving on.

The third door opens by itself. A woman steps out—pretty, with a round and motherly face. But when she speaks, there’s a harsh and inhuman echo behind her voice. Kanan is reminded instantly of the ravens’ cries.

“You truly should not be here,” she says, and smiles.

Hera holds her ground. “Mira Bridger?”

“Not anymore,” Kanan says, and the thing wearing Mira’s face turns to him with a look of delight.

“The turncoat!” she says happily, her voice still echoing with another presence. “You crawled out of hiding—at last!”

“Who am I talking to?” Kanan asks tightly.

“Oh, I’m not going to give you a name, treacherous one,” she says. “You can call me Seventh Sister.”

Behind Kanan, Zeb speaks up: “Where’s your son?” he demands. “You know you’re not allowed to have unsupervised contact with Ezra.”

“The pretty little morsel? We’re fattening him for the feast. But why drink Diet Angel when you can have the real thing?”

“Zeb,” Hera says urgently. “Take the candle. Don’t let it go out, no matter what.”

“Ezra! Let him go!” That’s Sabine—from the kitchen. Kanan pivots. “Hold her off,” he tells Hera roughly. “I’ll get the kids.”

Five quick steps to the kitchen. Yes, Sabine is there, and Ezra too, with the man he must think of as his father holding a heavy hand on his shoulder. The room is lit by the fire that swirls around the man’s other hand. Dark crimson flames, black-edged and heartless—hellfire. Kanan’s wings throb with the memory of pain.

He’s careful to keep the pain out of his voice, though. “And you are?”

“Fifth Brother,” the demon grinds out. When he speaks Kanan sees that he’s filed the human host’s teeth, to give him a smile like a shark. “The General has sent me in his place.”

The General. Kanan struggles to control his reaction, to deny the intensifying memory of agony. Then, from the hallway, he hears the steady beating of a drum, and Hera’s rich and lovely voice, chanting in Punjabi: _True in the beginning, True Through the Ages, True even now._ Kanan breathes deeply, and the phantom pain recedes.

The boy’s eyes have gone wide, staring at Kanan. “What _are_ you?” he says in a small voice.

“I’m the same thing you are,” Kanan says. “A little more so. Come on, I’ll get you out of here.”

“It’s not safe here, Ezra,” Sabine says gently.

From the hallway, Zeb’s voice: “Shit! What the hell is that!”

And Hera, still chanting: _True is the Master, True is the Name_ — _speak it with infinite love._

Ezra hesitates. Glances at his father. “Kid, you got a better option?” Kanan snaps.

“This kill is mine,” Fifth Brother snarls, and lifts his hand from Ezra’s shoulder. The lurid shadows in the kitchen suddenly grow starker as the Fifth Brother’s second hand also bursts into flame. He shapes the hellfire between his palms, rolling and swirling it into a vortex of blazing death.

“Dad, no,” Ezra cringes. “Not again!”

It’s the _again_ that does it. Because Ezra touches his cheek, and Kanan sees the thin scars there, and understands.

A cold and righteous fury surges over him. He reaches into the aether and draws his own sword. It springs to existence in his hand, a thin, silver-blue blade that glows with the brilliance of the stars. It has been a literal age since Kanan dared to call upon the soulfire sword, but this child has been touched by Hell once already and he will not let it happen again.

The sword is steady in his hand, exquisitely balanced and familiar as ever. Sabine gasps, the light from the sword bathing her upraised face. “Take Ezra and run,” Kanan tells her.

Sabine edges around the kitchen table, holding out her hand to Ezra. The Fifth Brother ignores her, advancing on Kanan with the hellfire whirling between his hands.

Crimson flame clashes to blue-white. They meet with a snapping, angry roar: hellfire against soulfire, both blazing implacably, both unquenchable. Neither can consume the other. Kanan pivots away and strikes low, but Fifth Brother slaps his blade away with a red lash of flame.

Ezra allows Sabine to grab his hand, and she pulls him back towards the kitchen door. From the hallway, Hera: _Sing, and listen, be filled with love._ The drum beats, steady and assuring, in the rhythm of the warrior saints.

Fifth Brother advances, slow and relentless. Kanan gives ground, trying to keep himself between the demon and the fleeing children.

 _Pain shall be banished, and peace shall come to your home_ —“aaah!” Hera’s chant breaks off abruptly, and the drumbeat stutters. There’s another sound from the hallway, the beat of many wings.

Kanan dismisses his sword and rolls, coming up into a storm of ravens. Their beating wings fill the hallway, and they’re diving and pecking at everybody there. Zeb’s shouting, flailing with his fists, while Hera is dancing between the black birds with her dagger in her hand, striking any she can reach. Ezra and Sabine are back to back, trying to protect their faces with their arms. The candle, dropped, has rolled to the edge of the hall and its flame is beginning to lick at the wallpaper.

Mira Bridger is nowhere to be seen.

Kanan grabs Ezra and Sabine, throwing his arms about their shoulders and spreading his wings above them. “Go,” he snarls, “run,” and pushes them before him. The ravens dive for him: he lowers his head and keeps running.

Hera and Zeb follow close on his heels. They run through the filthy living room, down the porch and out onto the street. The ravens follow in a dark stream, pouring from the mouth of the house and rising, cawing, into the night sky.

“I’ll take Ezra,” Hera pants. “Sabine and Zeb, you have a car? Go.”

“I’ll meet you at your place,” Kanan says. He waits until they’re safely away before he shifts forms, but the ravens have dispersed, and nothing emerges from the dark mouth of the house.

When he arrives back at Hera’s room, Ezra is sitting on her futon wrapped in a blanket, and Hera’s making hot chocolate. Three mugs. She hands him one wordlessly: “Thanks,” Kanan says.

“I imagine you don’t get infections,” she says. “But I’d like to clean those up anyway.”

Kanan looks down at himself: oh. The ravens. Their beaks and claws have torn his shoulders in several places, though the wounds are shallow and he barely feels any pain. Hera gestures to the futon, and Kanan sees that the first aid kit is already open beside Ezra.

“Are you hurt?” he demands, and the kid’s eyes focus on him.

“No,” Hera says reassuringly. “I checked him over. I think he’s underfed, though.”

“What did you mean?” Ezra says. “What did you mean, I’m like you? I don’t have wings.”

Kanan settles carefully on the futon beside him, and takes a sip from his mug. It’s warm and sweet. He wishes it were spiked with something stronger.

Hera kneels before him and picks out something from the kit. Kanan submits to her touch, letting her press a sterile swab to his cuts. "And your split lip," she murmurs, so he lets her clean that too.

When she’s done he says: “You have angelic blood, Ezra. Probably many generations back.”

Hera’s eyes flick to his. “You mean angels—and humans—” He looks back at her steadily, and for the first time her gaze drops away. She turns back to her kit, reaching for some kind of ointment.

“Then my parents—” Ezra begins.

“No,” Kanan says. “No, the angelic essence tends to skip generations. I can’t remember the last time I ran across one of the nephilim.”

“They’re not…?”

“They’re human, or they were,” Kanan says. “What’s working through them isn’t.”

Hera dabs at his lip with the ointment. He notices a flush on her dusky skin, and his lips curve. “Hold still,” she chides.

“Then why?” Ezra says bleakly. “Why them?”

Kanan waits until Hera draws back. “I don’t know,” he says. “You’re asking me one of the very hardest questions. I don’t know all the answers.”

Ezra huddles a little deeper into his blanket. “Will you help me get them back?”

Kanan sighs. “You have a choice to make, Ezra,” he says, “and it’s a dangerous one. There’s power inside you and I can teach you to channel it. But innocence is a protection of its own, and once you start learning—you give that up." There's silence, for a moment. Finally Kanan says: "The knowledge of good and evil is a bitter fruit.”

“Will it help me save my parents?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Think _hard_ on this. You’re making a choice that cannot be unmade.”

“What’s the alternative?” Hera murmurs.

“You stop. Both of you, _all_ of you. You stop right now and you go back to your lives. You let this story end. Right here.”

“No,” Ezra says. His voice is uncertain at first, but it strengthens as he goes on. “No, I want you to teach me.”

“All right,” Kanan says gravely. “I’ll try.”

***

In a dark and stinking house a lone candle flame gutters, sending long black streaks up an already-filthy wall. Seventh Sister watches the fire feed with an avid, hungry interest.

Then Fifth Brother unceremoniously squashes it beneath his heavy boot. Seventh Sister lifts her head. “Can’t you feel it?” she says eagerly. “There’s a new player on the board.”

“You mean the turncoat? Or the half-breed?”

“Oh, neither one. I mean the one that’s still here. Still hearing. Aren’t you?” She smiles, a pretty, motherly smile that does not touch her eyes. “You chose knowledge over innocence. I see you now.

“We see you. And we’re coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe the idea of a tattooed Zeb to [Gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen), who has been helping me bat ideas around and develop this AU. Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time in as many days, he reaches for his soulfire sword. It lights in his hand with a snapping hiss, spilling a blue-white glow over everything around them. Ezra’s face softens in wonder as Kanan walks closer. “Whoa. When do I get one of those?”

Ezra dreams, and in the dream he is not alone.

He’s walking down a sidewalk. It’s night, and as he passes under the streetlamps he moves from dark to light and dark again. The man beside him keeps pace perfectly.

“Ezra Bridger,” the stranger says. He’s handsome, with loose sandy-blond hair, and a thin scar over his right eye. In the pools of light under the streetlamps his shadow streams out strangely behind him. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Who are you?” Ezra says.

“Oh,” the stranger smiles, “I think you know my name.”

Ezra struggles to think back to his bar mitzvah lessons. What’s the very nicest way to put this? “The Accuser,” he says at last. “Morningstar.”

“Let’s go with Skywalker,” says the man in black. “But really. I answer to many names.”

“What do you want?”

Skywalker smiles again. It seems friendly and genuine. “What I’ve always wanted,” he says. “To offer you a choice. You know, all of this was only ever about one human soul.”

“I want my parents back,” Ezra says.

“And what would you give?”

“Anything,” Ezra says. “Anything.”

“Really? Would you let the whole galaxy burn, just to save the ones you love?” Skywalker looks interested. “I made that choice once.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

It begins to rain, or at least Ezra can hear the pattering of raindrops all around them, though he’s not getting wet. Skywalker goes on in a conversational tone: “Life in this world, Ezra, it’s mostly horrible. There are moments and a few lucky people get happy for a long time, but even then, it’s just the happiness of a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake. It can crack under you at any time and for so many reasons. A drunk driver, a collection of cancerous cells. A war that comes to your country. Sooner or later you’ll lose everything and everyone, no matter how hard you try to hold on. No matter what you offer in trade.

“I know that you asked the angel why,” he says. “Why your parents. Why do terrible things happen to good people?”

“He said he didn’t know,” Ezra whispers. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Skywalker says. “I do.”

It’s a long time before he goes on. Ezra stares down at his feet, noticing that there are puddles gathering all around. He wonders where he is going, walking with the devil into the dark. But when Skywalker finally speaks, it surprises him:

“Ever study information theory, Ezra?”

“Um,” Ezra says. “No.”

“Ever try to hack a password?”

Ezra’s silent, and Skywalker laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t believe in confession. Look, information theory tells us that our world isn’t the only world, just as our galaxy isn’t the only galaxy. In fact, our universe probably isn’t the only one. The multiverse contains everything. _Everything_. Every possible permutation of matter and energy. Now I know you’re not going to really be able to wrap your monkey brain around the concept of _everything_ , but give it a shot.”

“A world where Superman is real,” Ezra tries. Skywalker gives him a delighted smile.

“Yes! That’s right! And the proverbial monkeys banging on typewriters. Somewhere there’s a world where they’ve created all the plays of Shakespeare. _Everything_ , Ezra.”

“But what does that have to do with—”

“Hacking a password? Or your parents?”

“Both,” Ezra says.

“Bad things happen to good people because _everything_ happens to _everyone_. In some universe, there’s a version of you that conquers the world. There’s a version of you that died stillborn. There’s a version that goes into space and has wild adventures. But if you think, really think about it—about all the possibilities, all the ways that probability can branch—you’ll realize that most of the scenarios are bad. There are millions of versions of you that are tortured in every possible way, every second.”

“And yet,” Ezra ventures, “here we are.”

“Here we are,” says Skywalker, genially enough.

Ezra, experimentally, sets his food down squarely in the middle of a puddle. It makes a satisfying splash, ripples traveling out in every direction. But his shoe’s not wet.

“Passwords,” Skywalker says. “There’s a method called brute-force hacking, where you just try every possible combination of inputs until you get the one that clicks. I submit to you, Ezra, that the multiverse is God’s attempt to brute-force a lock. He’s trying every possible combination until He gets the answer.”

“The answer to _what_?”

Skywalker shakes his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Are you going to let yourself be used like this? Are you going to just accept all this suffering, all this pain—and it’s _infinite_ suffering, Ezra, _infinite_ pain. Not just on this world but every other.” His eyes gleam with fervor. “Are you content to let the program run? Or do you want to sabotage it from the inside?”

“How would we even do that?” Ezra objects, and Skywalker stops, turning to him with those shining eyes, as if he’s finally asked the only question that matters.

But before Skywalker can answer, Ezra wakes.

***

“Sorry,” Kanan whispers. “You were thrashing. I think you were having a bad dream.” His hand is still on Ezra’s shoulder, but he pulls back as soon as he sees the kid’s awake.

Hera’s already up. She gave Ezra the futon, and slept herself on a little nest of blankets laid out on the floor. Kanan didn’t sleep. He spent the night pacing the room, and checking out the window for signs of black birds. He’d _wanted_ to curl up beside Hera and shelter her beneath his wing, but that would be creepy, and besides her cat was already sleeping on her hip and it lashed its tail every time he got too close.

“It wasn’t…bad,” Ezra says. “Just weird.”

“I’ve got frozen waffles,” Hera offers.

“Sure,” Ezra says. “I’ll take a waffle.”

“Kanan already had three,” she grins.

“It’s mostly about the maple syrup,” Kanan says serenely.

Ezra smiles despite himself. “Can I…uh. Use the shower?”

“Yeah,” Hera says. “Let me get you a clean towel. Wash up, eat, and let’s see what we can do with the day.”

Kanan helps with the dishes—after untaping his hands—and it doesn’t escape him that Hera colors again when they’re standing side-by-side at the tiny kitchen area. Sometimes their fingers touch when he hands her a plate to dry. Sometimes her hip brushes against his wing. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t try to hide his interest, either: every time she tries to steal a glance his way, she finds that he’s already watching her.

“So what’s the first lesson?” the kid says, after polishing off the entire box of waffles.

Kanan scrubs at a fork. “Depends on where you’re at,” he says. “Have you ever had times in your life when you just _knew_ something, without understanding how? Particularly if you could understand a language you’ve never heard before, or looked into somebody’s eyes and knew something secret about them.”

Ezra brings his plate over to the sink. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Some of that stuff, yeah.” His eyes travel across the tiny square of counter space and land on the mini-fridge, lingering on the candles there, and Kanan’s tattered feather. “My dad had a business partner one time,” he says. “He would come over for dinner pretty often. I was scared of him from the first time I ever saw him, I would always go run and hide in my room. My parents were embarrassed because I was so rude to him.”

“And?” Kanan prompts gently.

Ezra turns, walks back to the futon. His hand makes a casual gesture as he passes the fridge. “And then one day my dad’s offices got raided by the FBI. It turns out his partner had invented his name, forged all his licenses, stolen a social security number. He was on the Most Wanted list. My parents wouldn’t even tell me what he’d done, it was so bad.”

The kid’s pretty good. There’s absolutely no sign of the feather in his hands, and Kanan doesn’t even know where he put it—just that the candles are all alone on the top of the fridge, now.

There’s no reason to say anything about it. There are a few things that somebody with advanced occult knowledge could do with an angel’s feather, but Ezra wouldn’t know any; he’s probably just trying to feel powerful, to assert control over his surroundings in any way that he can.

“So,” Kanan says. “Divine sight, that’s one of the things you’ve got. I bet you also never get sick.”

“Yeah,” Ezra says. “I’m pretty healthy. So hey, are you gonna cut to the bottom line or not?”

Kanan turns off the tap and dries his hands. “Bottom line?”

“Well, like.” The kid scrunches up his face. “Which is it? Who’s got it right. Jews? Christians? Hindus? Please don’t tell me it’s the Scientologists.”

“Oh,” Kanan says. “Uh, all of them? Human understanding is limited, but the divine isn’t. All of these faiths, they use metaphors to try and make it so people can get a little glimpse of—the vast true thing.” The kid’s still looking skeptical. Kanan sighs. “Look, there are a lot of different paths and any of them can work. The problem comes when people try to use the various details of one system or another to beat each other up with, because that’s pretty much the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Well, look at that,” Hera says. “Maybe he _is_ enlightened.”

“What?” Kanan demands.

She’s smiling. “Nothing. It was a good answer.”

“Okay,” Ezra says. “So how does any of this help me get my parents back?”

Kanan folds the towel and lays it beside the sink. “Let’s go up on the roof,” he says.

“I’ll get the key,” Hera offers.

As they file out of the apartment, Hera’s enormous ginger tom trots out behind them, exactly as if he knows where they’re going and thinks he's supposed to be there. Hera doesn’t object, so Kanan just keeps a wary eye on the cat as they walk.

Hera pushes open the fire door that leads out to the rooftop. It’s a flat asphalt expanse, made a bit more inviting with a few lawn chairs and potted plants. Beside one of the chairs, a big glass pickle jar overflows with ashes and cigarette butts.

From here there’s a good view of the city spread out before them: the tree-lined residential streets and the rising spires of downtown. The wind dashes a few drops of cold rain against their faces, but for the most part the heavy grey clouds are holding back their storm. Ezra rubs his hands up and down his arms. “Why are we out here?”

“For perspective,” Kanan says. “And so that I can do this.”

For the second time in as many days, he reaches for his soulfire sword. It lights in his hand with a snapping hiss, spilling a blue-white glow over everything around them. Ezra’s face softens in wonder as Kanan walks closer. “Whoa. When do I get one of those?”

“When you find your purpose,” Kanan says. He steps behind Ezra, reaching around to hold the sword in front of him, and with his free hand guides the kid’s hands to lay over his own. Together they swing it in a slow arc, then another. “Careful,” Kanan murmurs as Ezra’s movements grow more excited. “You’ll take your arm off.”

“Can I hold it? By myself?”

“Sorry,” Kanan says, and demonstrates by stepping back: as soon as he pulls his own hands away, the sword vanishes. “But you have the potential to form one of your own. See, everything you’ve done so far, it’s been unguided. To summon soulfire, you need to be aligned with the divine will.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look around you. What do you see?”

Ezra casts his eyes across the leafless trees, the wet streets. “Buildings,” he says. “Cars. Uh, there’s a pigeon over there.”

“You see the world,” Kanan says. “For better or worse, this is the world.” He swivels. “And then there’s _you_. Here for a little while, just a few years really. You could be gone at any time. What are you going to do with yourself? What are you here for?”

“For better or worse,” Ezra echoes. “Aren’t you supposed to have something to do with that?”

“Yeah, well,” Kanan says. “I’m trying.”

“I thought you guys were in charge.”

“Does it _look_ like I’m in charge? Seriously. Is this the world you think we’d have if the good guys won?” Kanan realizes his voice is too loud, but he can’t bring himself to care. This is why getting involved is always such a bad idea. The kid’s not the least bit grateful, his parents would have been dead in a handful of decades anyway, and now Kanan’s going to have Inquisitors on his ass for the next few centuries _at least._ And for what?

“You didn’t answer the question,” Hera says. Kanan had almost forgotten she was on the rooftop with them; she’s been so quiet. She walks over to Ezra and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her face is sympathetic, but her voice is impassioned. “What is your purpose? What is your work in the world? If all you do is fight for your own life, then your life is worth nothing.”

Ezra dashes a hand across his eyes. “I—I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have one.”

“Focus,” Kanan says. His anger slips away as he senses another chance to actually get through to the kid. “Look inside yourself. The answer is already there, it’s always been there.”

Ezra closes his eyes. The wind ruffles his hair. After a long moment he says: “I want to make things better. I want to help.”

“Help everyone? Not just your parents?” Kanan presses. “What about people you don’t even know?”

“But—“ Ezra says slowly. “But I do know them. If I think about it. We’re all…connected.”

“Okay,” Kanan says. “Good. I think you’ll be able to do this.” Ezra opens his eyes as Kanan casts about. “Let’s try—hmm.” Underneath all the ashes and butts, there’s a layer of gravel in the pickle jar. Kanan thrusts his hand in and brings out a fistful.

“Eww,” Ezra comments, but Kanan ignores that.

“You need to break past your preoccupations,” he says. “You need focus, and calm. The soulfire sword will come to your hand when you are acting purely from justice and necessity. Close your eyes.”

“Uh,” Ezra says. “Why?” But he does it.

Kanan chucks a little piece of gravel at his forehead. “Ow!” Ezra cries as it connects. “Hey! That stings!” He reels backwards, brushing at his face.

“So block it,” Kanan says.

“I don’t—I can’t—you told me to close my eyes!”

“Use your sense of connection to the world. Use your knowledge of justice. You’re an innocent and you’re being attacked. Draw your sword and block the strike.”

“Isn’t there any other way to teach him this?” Hera murmurs.

Kanan shrugs and flicks another bit of gravel. “Maybe? Look, catechism was never my thing. I’m a warrior angel.”

“Ow!” Ezra yells again, taking another step back.

“Honestly, it would probably work better if the threat was bigger,” Kanan says. “More real.”

The orange cat lashes his tail. “MWAOOOOOAAARRRWW,” he yowls, loud enough that all three pairs of eyes snap to him. His back arches, fur bristling all over— _definitely_ part wildcat, Kanan thinks—and then he springs.

At Ezra.

Who is already standing at the edge of the roof.

“Aaaahhh!” Ezra yells as the hissing cat lands inches from him. He recoils—he teeters—

—and then he falls.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here’s the thing about garlic,” Zeb says. He’s got a strange accent, not quite any one thing in particular, as if he’s spent a lot of time in a lot of different countries. “Garlic is love. It can be strong or gentle, mellow or harsh, and whichever way you want it is just a matter of how you use the knife.”
> 
> “I think that metaphor got away from you,” Sabine observes.
> 
> “Okay, yeah.”

Kanan springs, wings extending, launching himself off the rooftop after the falling kid. He blurs through the air and through the aether, moving faster than terminal velocity, and catches Ezra about halfway to the ground. The kid is shrieking. “I’ve got you! I’ve got you,” Kanan assures him, and he subsides into long, gasping breaths.

Kanan’s wings beat with quick, strong strokes, stirring up a small tornado of dust and leaves on the sidewalk below. He slowly rises with the kid in his arms, until they reach the rooftop again. Hera’s eyes are wide and shocked, her hands pressed against her mouth. As soon as Kanan drops Ezra to the asphalt roof she runs to him, pulling him back from the ledge.

“You weren’t focused,” Kanan says, a little defensively.

Ezra shakes off Hera’s worried hands. “Tough to focus when I’m falling to my death!” Hera steps back and looks over at Kanan instead, her big green eyes lingering reproachfully. The cat, Kanan notices, is licking his tail by the doorway, utterly unconcerned.

Kanan huffs and folds his wings back in. “Look,” he says, “you need to make peace with your place in the world before you’ll have the strength of will to defend it.”

“I’m fifteen!” Ezra complains. “How am I supposed to know my purpose in life?”

“Sabine’s not much older than you and she _glows_ with purpose,” Kanan says.

Hera makes a small hum. “Maybe they should spend some time together? It might help if Ezra could talk to someone his own age.”

Ezra immediately coughs, scruffing his toe against the asphalt. “I, uh. I don’t mind if she doesn’t.”

Hera’s looking over to Kanan for confirmation. “Yeah,” he says. “Tell her—and Zeb—tell them to show Ezra the things in life that give them purpose and meaning. Tell them he needs inspiration.”

“And also,” Hera says as she pulls out her phone, “I have the feeling he could just use a good day.”

***

“You got a favorite color?” Sabine asks. She’s packing canisters of spray paint into her bag, along with a couple of bandannas, a sheet of stickers, some markers, a sketchbook, and other stuff Ezra didn’t quite catch.

“Uh, probably orange?” Ezra says, and is rewarded with a flash of a smile.

“Cool,” Sabine says simply.

“So,” he says, “how’d you get into graffiti art?”

“It wasn’t like a big decision I made one day,” Sabine says. “I’ve made art for…as long as I can remember. I think everybody makes art, of one kind of another. All kids like drawing with crayons, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” says Ezra, “but you’re _really good_.” He nods to the vibrant design painted on her bag, flames morphing into what looks like a bird’s head. “I don’t even know what that is but it makes me feel…uh, strong? I guess?”

“Fierce,” says Sabine. “Like no matter how much the world beats you down, you’re just gonna come back from the ashes and you’re gonna fucking soar. It’s a phoenix. It’s kind of my symbol.”

“See?” says Ezra. “How do you come up with that?”

“You look at things,” says Sabine. “Ugly things, pretty things, everything. You ask yourself ‘what’s that’ and ‘how did that get there’ and ‘is there anything else it could be’. You start…messing with stuff. Changing it. Making it better, or at least making it yours.” She slings the bag over her shoulder. “Even when you don’t have anything else, if you have a can of paint you can make everything yours.”

“So it’s like you’re saying—“

“I was here,” says Sabine quietly. “To everyone who wants to ignore you or wishes you didn’t exist, you’re saying: Fuck you. I was here and I mattered.”

Two hours later they’re dodging together through alleyways, the bandannas over their faces, laughing wildly. Ezra’s pasting phoenix stickers on telephone poles, while Sabine is writing something really long—it spans multiple walls, a whole story told over city blocks. He hasn’t really had a chance to read it because every time a car slows down near them or voices get too close she grabs his hand and they run.

It occurs to him that in order to actually read it, to follow the whole thread of whatever she’s writing, then somebody would have to follow in their footsteps. They’d have to reckon with those gaps and those stutters. Maybe they’d have to feel the same alarm as the letters suddenly break off, or the same triumph when the writing resumes. Maybe that’s the point.

“Okay,” Sabine pants. “I think we’re pushing our luck. Do you want to leave a tag of your own before we head back?”

“Like, just write my name?”

“Well, you could, but most of us pick our tags. I’m Starbird.” She hands him the orange can. “Don’t pick anything lame.”

“Great,” Ezra grumbles. “No pressure.”

In the end he writes JABBA in wobbly letters across a Dumpster. Sabine squints. “Jabba?”

“Yeah,” Ezra says. “Like Jabba the Hutt. He’s a boss.”

She rolls her eyes, but secretly Ezra’s sure she thinks it’s cool.

***

“Here’s the thing about garlic,” Zeb says. He’s got a strange accent, not quite any one thing in particular, as if he’s spent a lot of time in a lot of different countries. “Garlic is love. It can be strong or gentle, mellow or harsh, and whichever way you want it is just a matter of how you use the knife.”

“I think that metaphor got away from you,” Sabine observes.

“Okay, yeah.”

“Can you please just tell me how to chop the garlic?” Ezra whines. Zeb already has a bunch of chicken thighs sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, and the smell of the crisping skin is making him hungry.

“Yeah, put the cloves down on the board and lay the knife flat on top of it. Now give it a sharp whack—there you go, don’t cut yourself—and the paper will peel right off.”

Ezra extracts the clove from its peel. “How many of these did you say you want?”

“Forty.”

“ _Forty_? Forty cloves of garlic will kill us. You can overdose on garlic, right?”

“But what a way to go,” says Sabine.

“Forty,” says Zeb firmly, “and it will be the mildest, sweetest chicken and garlic you ever tasted.”

Ezra starts on the second clove. “I think you’re making this up,” he says. “You’re just messing with me, right? See how many cloves of garlic we can make the new kid peel before we bust out laughing at him?”

“Do you ever stop bitching?”

“I don’t know, do you ever stop making that face?”

“What face?”

“That’s just his face,” murmurs Sabine.

“Oh, very funny. You two are hilarious, you are.”

Ezra waves the chef’s knife in Sabine’s general direction. “How come she doesn’t have to chop anything?”

“Because we only have one knife,” Zeb says. “And because Sabine has an _interest_ in chemistry. She’s not allowed to cook.”

“Wouldn’t chemistry make you a better cook?” Ezra objects. He’s getting faster at peeling the garlic. Up to ten cloves now.

“You’d think!” Sabine says brightly.

“One time we let her brew the coffee and she almost blew up the house,” Zeb says.

“I was trying to make the water boil _really fast_.”

The kitchen is warm and smells good. Sabine and Zeb’s banter is funny, and there’s even something relaxing about the simple, repetitive task of peeling the garlic. Ezra thinks he can guess why Zeb chose cooking as his inspiration, but he tries to make a joke out of it anyway: “So Kanan wanted you to show me the purpose of life, and you chose food? I guess you live to eat?”

“I dunno about all that purpose stuff,” Zeb says, turning the chicken. “I just know that when I was in the crappiest places, cold and scared and homesick as hell, a hot meal made everything a little bit better.”

Ezra swallows and reaches for another clove of garlic.

“‘Sides,” Zeb says softly, “I like feeding people. It’s better than shooting at them.”

Once Ezra’s done with the garlic, Zeb mixes all forty cloves with a bit of olive oil and sugar and sticks them in the microwave. They come out soft and spotty. He moves the chicken to a plate, pours off most of the fat from the skillet, and stirs up the garlic in the chicken fat that’s left, until all the cloves are evenly colored. A splash of sherry loosens up all the browned bits at the bottom of the pan. Then he mutters—“three quarters cup of chicken broth, half a cup of cream—Sabine, hand me the thyme. Where’s a bay leaf, I need a bay leaf?”

“Bay leaf,” says Ezra, rummaging in the cabinet.

“Thyme!” Sabine says. “Just in thyme.”

“A little water and corn starch…there we go, see, it’s thickened right up. Chicken goes back in the pan, pan goes in the oven…Right. Dinner in twenty minutes. Sabine, wanna see if anyone else is joining us?”

***

The sun is setting, and Kanan is flying again, because Hera asked him to.

He’s holding her in front of him, his arms beneath her shoulders and wrapped around her waist. Her hands rest lightly on top of his. His wings are beating with a strong and steady rhythm, beating through air and aether to hold them both suspended in one eternal moment.

But eternity is not given to mortals. Kanan will hold it in his heart forever, but the moment does slip away, just as the sun finally slips behind the clouds. Venus, the star of evening and morning, is the first to blaze into existence above them. It is joined by a hundred more as the darkness overtakes them.

Hera sighs and tilts back her chin to gaze at the stars. Her head rests now against his shoulder. It would only take the smallest of motions for them to kiss.

A hundred stars become a thousand. Hera turns her head, and her lips brush his. The rhythm of his flight stutters, then strengthens: they soar even higher as he kisses her slowly and thoroughly. Then she draws back.

“Is this a sin?” she whispers.

 _Sin_ is any activity that damages the soul. None of the nights Kanan has passed with eager-but-unseeing mortals were occasions of measurable sin—he chose those who needed the affirmation of warm arms around them, of breathing skin-to-skin, of touching and being touched with affection and tenderness—but he thinks, in retrospect, there may have been some cumulative wear and tear. He thinks of eyes that slid away in the morning, of goodbyes whispered furtively when they were said at all, and of the weariness and loneliness that has nearly crushed him these past centuries.

He holds Hera among the stars and knows that what he wants from her is different. She is not offering a night of diversion. He wants to know her deeply, to bring her every kind of ecstasy, to whisper hymns of praise against her skin and to take joy with her in the miracle of life. He would give himself over to her freely, and without reservation, and for as long as she may live.

“No,” he says before he kisses her again. “It’s a sacrament.”

***

The chicken comes out juicy and pungent, bathed in a creamy sauce that grows even more appetizing when Zeb mashes up about half the garlic into the sauce. The remaining cloves are studded among the chicken thighs, little soft morsels of flavor. Ezra has to admit that their taste is remarkably mild.

“Are you staying here tonight, Ezra?” Zeb asks. “Or headed back to Hera’s place?”

“Back to Hera, I think,” Ezra says. “I know I’m supposed to stay here, but I just…feel safer there.”

Zeb sighs heavily. “Can’t blame ya. I’ll cover for you.”

“Need a lift?” Sabine asks.

“I can take the bus,” Ezra says. “There’s a stop right there. And I—I actually would kind of like the chance to think for a bit. On my own.”

“All right,” Zeb says. “But we’ll walk you to the bus stop. And tell Hera you’re on your way.”

On the bus, Ezra curls into a window seat and watches the streetlights go by. Light, dark, light. He idly pulls a tattered feather from his pocket and twirls it between his fingers.

At a red light, as the bus idles, Ezra gaze sharpens. He sits up, reaching for his phone. He’s tapping out a message to Hera as he swings out of his seat. _Changed my mind. Staying at the home tonite. See you 2morrow._

He pushes out the back of the bus and presses Send. There, perched on a telephone pole: he knew what he saw. A raven.

Ezra holds up the feather. “I have a message for Skywalker,” he says. “Tell him…” his voice cracks. He swallows hard, and goes on. “Tell him I’m waiting to hear his offer.”

***

A black bird with a white feather in its beak swoops through city streets. Here and there, as the bird flies, it passes words painted in a colorful and broken script. The raven does not stop to read them, but the words remain.

HEY YOU (YES YOU) NEED YOUR HELP

YOU HAVE WORK TO DO AND YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS

YOUR LIFE’S WORK YOUR GREAT WORK IT’S THE REASON YOU’RE HERE

IT DOESN’T MATTER IF OTHER PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND. IT DOESN’T MATTER IF YOU THINK YOU CAN’T DO IT RIGHT. IT’S IMPORTANT DON’T BLOW IT OFF. IT’S YOUR WORK TO DO

IT’S SOMETHING THAT WILL HELP

DO YOUR WORK AND HEAL THE WORLD

DO YOUR BEST, LOVE YOURSELF AND OTHER PEOPLE, DON’T HURT ANYBODY, DON’T GIVE UP

THAT’S IT THAT’S REALLY IT

(YEAH STILL TALKING TO YOU DUMBASS)

I LOVE YOU GOOD LUCK


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Candles flicker, adding their strength to the gray morning light. Kanan stands with his head bowed. He’s trying to find something he threw away a long time ago.
> 
> Like the soulfire sword, it comes back to him almost too eagerly. A small motion of the wrist, and then he’s holding it: an ancient piece of armor, made of a metal that no blacksmith would recognize, and worked with fine chasings that can no longer entirely be discerned. There’s an arm and a shoulder guard, both fitted with leather straps to secure them to his body. Though they’re scarred and blackened in many places the metal remains strong, and the leather soft and supple.

Hera’s phone chirps. She ignores it. She’s warm and she’s cozy and she’s dreaming of flying.

A moment later, it chirps again. She rolls over to mute it, or at least she means to, but there’s something heavy on top of her. A man.

Well, sort of a man.

Kanan’s naked beside her on the futon, face-down, his arm flung across her. More than his arm. She’s starting to be able to faintly make out the wings, mostly as a blur in the corner of her field of vision, but she can feel them perfectly. It’s his wing that’s so heavy and soft and warm above her.

His blue-green eyes are open, watching her with a look that makes the pit of her stomach go molten. “I should get that,” she murmurs.

He pulls back, though his hand caresses the bare skin of her belly as he does so, and Hera forgets about the phone. She follows the angel instead.

Some time later, Hera actually swings out of bed and picks up her phone. She stares at it, frowning, then swipes a couple times. “I don’t—” She breaks off, chewing her lip.

Kanan’s already sitting up, reaching for his worn jeans. “What?”

“Zeb wants to know if Ezra would like to go out bowling with him and Sabine. But I thought he was already with them?”

Kanan finishes pulling on his jeans and closes his eyes. “No,” he says after a moment. His voice is grim. “No, that’s not where he is.”

Hera slowly lowers the phone. “Where is he?” she says, though her words are slow and laced with dread.

“In the mouth of Hell,” Kanan says. His jaw clenches. “It’s his home, after all.”

“He—went back? To _them_? Why would he do that?”

Kanan opens his eyes. “Because he wants to save them.”

Hera paces to the other side of the room. “So do I.”

“We can’t,” Kanan says flatly. “They really are gone.”

She swings around. “Do you know that?”

“No. But the things Seventh Sister was doing—it shouldn’t be possible with a mortal, corporeal host. A human can’t turn into a flock of birds. And Fifth Brother summoned hellfire. ” He sighs. “Most likely, they’re just wearing the faces. The Bridgers are dead.”

Hera’s wide expressive eyes shine with emotion. “Last time,” she says, “we went hoping for a miracle.”

“This time,” Kanan says grimly, “we come bringing war.”

***

Candles flicker, adding their strength to the gray morning light. Kanan stands with his head bowed. He’s trying to find something he threw away a long time ago.

Like the soulfire sword, it comes back to him almost too eagerly. A small motion of the wrist, and then he’s holding it: an ancient piece of armor, made of a metal that no blacksmith would recognize, and worked with fine chasings that can no longer entirely be discerned. There’s an arm and a shoulder guard, both fitted with leather straps to secure them to his body. Though they’re scarred and blackened in many places the metal remains strong, and the leather soft and supple.

Hera takes the pieces from his hands, and fits them to his shoulder and arm. She pulls tight the straps, singing softly: _O Chandi grant me the boon, that I may never deviate from doing a good deed._ _That I shall not fear when I go into combat. And with determination I will be victorious._

When she’s finished, Kanan raises his head. He lifts his mailed arm and touches her face. Her hair is unbound, spilling over her brown shoulders: he lets his fingers brush across her hair and over her skin as she continues to sing.

Then he steps around behind her, stooping to pick up the small wooden comb that she left at her bedside. With unhurried care, he combs through her hair from the tips to the roots, then gathers it in his hands. He collects and gently twists the glossy black mass of it, and secures it with the comb at the top of her head.

Then he catches her hand in his own and raises it to his lips, brushing his lips over the silver bangle she wears.

As they both gird for battle he gives her every blessing he can. And he fears it will not be enough.

Hera sings: _That I may teach myself this greed alone, to learn only Thy praises. And when the last days of my life come, I may die in the might of the battlefield._

***

On the steps of the little bungalow, Hera and Kanan both pause in wordless confusion—is this the right place? The house is just as they remember, but the stench is gone, or at least mostly gone. There is something faint and almost-there, like a memory of decay held in the air. A light burns in the front window. When Hera presses the doorbell it makes a pleasant chime.

Ezra opens the door. “Okay, look, I know I should have called—“ he breaks off, taking in Kanan’s armor. “Wow, um. You’re…more dressed.”

“What’s going on, Ezra?” Kanan says, as neutrally as he can manage.

“I worked things out. It's good.”

“Can we come in?” Hera says.

“I don’t think—“

But a voice from the living room says sweetly: “Oh yes, bring them in, Ezra. Where are your manners?”

Reluctantly, Ezra steps away from the door. Behind him the living room has been cleaned beyond all recognition. The bird cage has vanished, the furniture outfitted with clean slipcovers. The walls gleam with a fresh coat of white paint.

On the couch, Mira and Ephraim Bridger are sitting together, facing the TV. It would be an idyllic family tableaux except for the strange, ramrod-straightness of their spines, and the fact that the television is tuned to a dead channel.

Mira cocks her head, violet eyes sparkling. There is only the faintest hint of a bird’s screech behind her voice. “I’m so sorry for the other day,” she said. “You caught us at a bad time. We hadn’t had a chance to prepare for company.”

“Look,” Ezra says desperately. “They’re better now. They’re going to get better.”

“You ‘worked things out’?” Hera says. She's ignoring the duo on the couch; her eyes are fixed on Ezra alone. “How?”

“I,” Ezra swallows. “I made a deal.”

“What _kind_ of deal?”

Mira Bridger watches with a sparkling, greedy gaze. Ephraim Bridger does not move or react in any way, just stares at the static on the television screen.

Ezra’s face is stubborn and angry. “What do I need a soul for anyway?” he says.

“No,” Hera says desperately. “Ezra, no.”

Kanan stops her with a hand on her shoulder. “Ezra,” he says. “I’m so sorry. But if someone told you that you could trade your soul for your parents, they were lying.”

“Look, I’m not _stupid_ ,” Ezra says. “I know they’re not the same. Not yet. But they’re _better_ and I’m working on getting through to—“

“That’s not what I mean,” Kanan breaks in. “I mean a soul isn’t something you can give away. It’s…it’s just the impression you cast on the whole tapestry. Shaped by the choices you’ve made, and the way you relate to the world. It’s like your shadow, or your reflection—it's unique to you but it doesn't have any real existence apart from you. Hell doesn’t have your soul, and it doesn’t have your parents’ souls, either.”

Slowly, Ephraim Bridger’s head swivels, moving to regard Kanan and Hera and Ezra. But neither he nor Mira speak.

“That’s,” Ezra says slowly. “That’s not possible. They’re right _here_.”

“They’re not,” Kanan says gravely. “I’m sorry.”

“Skywalker said—“

“I said.” It’s a chorus of voices: Mira and Ephraim, speaking in perfect unison. “I said I could give them peace. Purpose. And surcease from pain. Have I not fulfilled our bargain?”

Kanan takes a single step forward, wings half-extended. A sword as bright as the stars blazes into existence in his hand. “Stop,” Ezra whimpers.

Mira and Ephraim stand, their movements perfectly coordinated. “So,” they say together. “The turncoat returns.”

“Fifth Brother,” Kanan grits out. “Seventh Sister. Whoever you are, I loved you once. And I loved my General. The best of us, the chosen one—you burned so bright.”

“And yet,” the demons chorus. “And yet, you tasted fire and chose the dark. Alone of all my host, _you_ turned against me.”

“I would have followed you into Hell,” Kanan says roughly. “But you wanted to tear down Heaven instead.”

“The last of the rebel angels.” The demons’ voices are jeering. “The only one to turn back before the Fall. But are you a rebel still? All your questions, all your doubts. Or have you found answers in your long exile?”

“No,” Kanan says. “No. I’ve just learned how to go on anyway.”

“I think they call that faith,” Hera says softly.

Mira and Ephraim raise their arms in unison, and crimson hellfire roars into life around their hands. Kanan shifts his sword to a ready position.

“ _Stop_ ,” Ezra says again, more strongly this time. Kanan glances over, his face troubled.

“And this is your choice?” the demons demand. “After all this time, after so much suffering and sacrifice? You choose to bend the knee and serve, a vanished God and His sadistic plan?”

Kanan’s eyes linger on Ezra’s face. Then he makes a tossing motion with his hand, and the soulfire sword vanishes. Wordlessly, he sinks to his knees.

“So be it,” the demons hiss.

They reach out with burning, smoking, snapping hands, grasping for the angel’s wings. Pulling. Twisting. Shredding. Kanan throws back his head and _screams_. The fire licks greedily from feather to feather, swirling up into a devouring blaze.

Hera makes no sound at all. She’s just suddenly in motion, fast and whirling as the flames themselves. Her dagger is in her hand. She feints high and kicks low, knocking the Seventh Sister off-balance.

Fifth Brother turns to her, lashing out with the hellfire. Hera throws up an arm to shield her face and the fire splits an inch from her skin, howling around an invisible shield centered around her bracelet.

On the ground, Kanan grimaces, pushing himself up on one fist. His wings are fully ablaze.

Hera dances between the two demons, tossing her dagger from hand to hand, striking wherever she finds an opening. She is preternaturally sure-footed and quick, but there are two of them, and she has their full attention. Hellfire licks in her wake, striking the spots where she stood only a moment before. The carpet smoulders, then catches fire.

Smoke and heat are distorting the air in the room. The fire along the carpet is spreading, licking at the hem of the slipcover on the couch. Hera coughs and stutters in her dance. A whip of flame catches her across the back and her face distorts in agony.

“Ezra,” Kanan groans.

Fifth Brother is grinning, displaying his sharpened teeth. Mira Bridger is whirling crimson hellfire between her palms.

“ _Ezra_ ,” Kanan says again. He’s struggling to regain his feet, even as his wings transform to pure flame. “Ezra, make your choice.”

Tears hotter than any fire streak down the boy’s cheeks. There is nothing left for him but justice and necessity. He reaches out and a sword comes to his hand. It burns with blue, unwavering fire.

“STOP,” he says, and the demons falter. In the shimmering, smoky air, their faces slip and blur. Mira’s motherly features, Ephraim’s stern and wise countenance, are gone. What remains is something inhuman and cruel.

Ezra lifts the sword and swings. It’s light and precise in his hand, guiding him to where he needs to go. He slashes at the Seventh Sister and her form disperses into swirling black smoke, with the raucous cry of carrion birds echoing through the room.

Hera, coughing more violently now, throws her kirpan. It spins end-over-end, striking swift and unerring towards the Fifth Brother’s heart. The knife slams into his chest, burying itself to the hilt.

The Fifth Brother’s lips pull back from his sharpened teeth, and he laughs. Blood-red flames swirl in an inferno around him and still he laughs. It’s a grinding, mocking sound, the mad laughter of a creature who has lost the capacity to grieve. Laughing, burning, he staggers toward Hera and Ezra with arms outstretched.

Ezra holds the sword steady, but he’s gasping for breath now too. The house is burning all around them, and the air is choked with soot.

And then the angel rises.

No longer a man, no longer a physical being of any sort: the angel is clean storm wind and the flash of lightning. The angel is light and fury. Fifth Brother stands for an instant against the storm, but inexorably his fires dwindle, and his laughter dies. He clutches at the kirpan buried in his chest.

Then the blade alone falls to the ground, and the demon is gone.

The crackling, electric, cleansing wind thunders through Hell’s house. Where it meets fire, the flames are beaten down. Smoke and ashes are blasted away.

What remains are the seared timbers of a home, and fallen among the wreckage, two slender mortal forms. Both of them pressed beyond mortal endurance.

Kanan shifts back to a form that can hold them. Pain surges over him: very little remains of his wings but the blackened spokes of feathers, dancing here and there with sparks. He lifts Ezra first. When he feels the slight shift of the boy’s body against him as he breathes, Kanan nearly collapses. He whispers broken words of gratitude and carries Ezra to the curb.

He goes back for Hera but does not touch her. Her face is deathly still, and this final trial is not one he’s sure he can withstand.

Instead he kneels at her side, and spreads what is left of his shattered wings, to shelter her until a greater guardian comes to take her home.


	7. Chapter 7

“Does she not even have a zester?” Zeb complains. “Or a microplane?”

“Here, give me the lemon,” Ezra says. “I’m getting better with the knife.”

Zeb flips the citrus into the air, and Ezra catches it one-handed. “Half a teaspoon?” he says.

“Half a teaspoon of fine-chopped lemon zest,” Zeb confirms.

“I still don’t see how you’re going to make tuna casserole on a hot plate,” Sabine says. They’ve allowed her to open the cans, though Zeb’s still shooting wary glances her way every time she gets near the heating element. She waits until his back is turned, then slips Chopper another bit of tuna.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Zeb rumbles.

Hera, leaning against Kanan on the futon, lifts her chin to slide him a private smile. It’s her first night home from the hospital. Smoke inhalation and second-degree burns: Ezra had the same, but startled the doctors with his speed of recovery.

Kanan’s been looking after her apartment and her cat. He and Chopper have reached a kind of understanding. He thinks. Although now that he’s watching Sabine’s tuna-based diplomacy, he realizes that he may still have a lot to learn about cats.

And maybe about everything.

He tightens his arm around Hera. He knows every language of man and yet he doesn’t have words for the miracle of her survival—the grace that remains to them. Five or six decades of it. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

She runs a hand over his back. His wings are growing back. The new feathers are sleek, untattered, and pure black. Like a raven’s wing. He doesn’t know what it means.

But he’s learned to go on anyway.

Outside, a bright-eyed bird peers down from its streetlamp perch at the sidewalk below. There’s someone walking by. The man doesn’t pause, but he does looks up briefly; there’s a scar across his face, and in the light from the streetlamp he casts a strange shadow, darkness trailing him with a feathery sweep.

“This was only ever about one human soul,” he says. “You’ve heard me. Your choice is still your own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'  
> hierarchies? 
> 
> —Rainer Maria Rilke  
> Duino Elegies: The First Elegy  
> (trans. Stephen Mitchell)


End file.
